 |
| Buy Caller I.D. on ETSY |
I'd like to invite you to the next three receptions of my show "Renovated Reputations"
Fiction, Art, and Fun!
|
I'm Kenney Mencher. I'm an artist who left a tenured professorship in 2016 to pursue making art full time. This blog is about art, art history, with a emphasis on human rights. I make homoerotic art featuring bears, otters & other gay wildlife.
Saturday
"Caller I.D." oil on canvas 36"x36"x1.5" inches framed
Wednesday
Write a story about Gray Finder and Win the Pencil Drawing of Gray
Write a story about
Gray Finder
and
Win the Pencil Drawing of Gray
Contest Ends
Monday January 30th
I'll get this judged by Friday February 10th! PROMISE!
I'll get this judged by Friday February 10th! PROMISE!
Round #2 of Renovated Reputations will culminate in three shows.Santa Clara University, California
January 9 - February 5th
Reception: Thursday February 2, 2012
It is located on the Alameda, at the intersection of Bellomy St, Park Ave, and the Alameda.
Ohlone College, Fremont California
February 7th - March 9th
Reception, Saturday, February 25, 2012
6PM - 8PM
Louie Meager Art Gallery
Ohlone College, 43600 Mission Blvd.
Fremont, California 94539
Elliott Fouts Gallery, Sacramento California
February 4th - March 1st, 2012.
The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words.
The story you write should be a "Flash Fiction" which is a complete story in one thousand or fewer words. Please post the story in the comment section, you will have to provide your name and an email address in order to be qualified to win or you can e-mail me at kmencher@ohlone.edu with your info.
There is a problem with how many characters can post (only about 4,000) so if you cannot post it.
E-mail it to me at kmencher@ohlone.edu
This is the second version of this show!
Stories will be published in a vintage style newspaper catalog and the gallery will be converted into a 1930 or 40's cabaret set and students will be acting the stories out as monologues at some of the events at the college in the art gallery.
More competitions posted on my website at:
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/
___________________________________________________
These came in by e-mail:
By Denise Nomura
My father was that type of guy who rarely ever smiled. Of course, at
first glance, he looks like the kind of guy who would be enthusiastic
and very humorous. If only that were the case. He's the type of guy who
was rarely ever impressed. His father, my grandpa,
was that way, so I suppose I see where he gets it. Also, he's the CEO
of an extremely successful banking company, so I guess his job requires
him to be that way.
So my whole life, I've tried to do something impressive enough to win a blue-moon smile from my dad. I played football, baseball, and basketball; got 4.0's in high school; graduated the top of my class. I was just basically the ideal kid. Or at least from the surface. Because of the pressure of school, my extra-curriculars, and trying to impress my father; I did almost every drug you can think of. You'd think it would interfere with my school life, but I would never allow that. Even if I was high off my ass; I still attended every class, did every assignment, even took exams a couple of times. Because what's worse than his mutual look, was his disappointed look. Which I learned in the fourth grade when I dropped the winning touchdown pass in my junior football team's final game. After that, I vowed to my young self to never see that face ever again.
When my grandma passed away, I flew home from college to comfort my father. Because his own father was so hard on him, his mom had to be his comfort zone. She welcomed his father's disappointments with open arms and a batch of cookies. She was the most important person in the world to my father, so I knew he would take her passing very hard.
As, I had suspected, my father was in his study with a bottle of whiskey in hand.
"Hi dad." I whispered. Partially because I felt I was interrupting, and he wasn't exactly the friendliest drunk in the world. But I figured that seeing his only son after being away at college for so long, who came home simply to console him, would change that.
I was wrong. He looked up at me with an irritated glare. "Huh." He said, as though the only greeting I deserved for interrupting his wallowing was a simple grunt.
"Okay, I'll just come back later." I half whimpered as I let myself out.
In that second, it's as though all of the seeded resentment and that feeling of overall feeling unappreciated took over my body as I turned around and slammed the door open. "You know what dad?!" I yelled. He sat up, startled. "Yeah, it sucks that grandma's gone, but you know what sucks even more!? Leaving all of your classes behind, the week before finals, just to come home to be a shoulder to lean on for the one person that would never appreciate it!" As I was saying this, my father had a look of shock plastered on his face. "And you know what?! Fuck this! I don't need to be here for you when you've never been there for me!" And with that, I leaned in, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it behind me as I strode out of the house in a rage.
Before I knew it, I was at my old dealer's house. We greeted each other and then immediately got down to business. After I went to college, I forgot how good it felt to light up. I think I blacked out for a while, only to be woken up by my cell phone. It was my mother.
"Danny, where are you?" She asked with concern in her voice.
"I'm at a friend's house, ma. What'dya want?" I didn't mean to sound so snooty towards her, but I couldn't help it.
"Grandma's funeral is in an hour. I hope you have your speech down because you're speaking first. I just wanted to let you know before we left. Do you need a ride, sweetie?" My stomach dropped into my friend's basement...
"No, it's okay, mom. I'll walk there." At that moment, I realized that our church was a city away.
"Are you sure, baby? We can always swing by to get you." I didn't want my mother to see me in this state, also, I needed to sober up.
"Yeah, it's totally fine, mom. I need to get a little off my mind anyways."
"Okay, hun. See you there!"
"'Kay, thanks, mom." As I hung up the phone, I got up and ran out of the house. I nearly fell down the stairs on my friend's porch, but in that moment, I didn't care. I just needed to remember exactly where I was, and how to get to the church. It took what seemed like fifteen minutes, which probably only took one, but I finally oriented myself and started sprinting.
I got to the church four minutes early, and in that time, I realized that I went to my grandmother's funeral in an old band tee, some ripped jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. I shook my head to forget about it, because there was nothing I could do at this point. I thought of, what I thought, was the perfect speech in two minutes. Then I instantly went to look for my mother.
Thank God, my father was nowhere to be found. Not only would it be awkward because I had just yelled at him for the first time ever on the day of his dear mother's funeral... But because I was so insanely under-dressed, I would almost instantly earn a "disappointed look," and that's the last thing I needed at this point. My mother pulled me to the front, where we sat.
In what seemed like seconds, I was being called up to make my speech. I was so nervous. Usually public speaking was my forte. But I was still a bit high, I was feeling self-conscious about my attire, and I knew I would be making this speech in front of my father. I got up to the podium, looked around to find my father's face. And when I finally did, I felt my stomach drop again. But this time, I felt this salty taste in my mouth....
Yes, I threw up at my grandma's funeral. In front of every one. On her casket.
I was so embarrassed. I only stayed for mere seconds to see the disgust on my family's faces. Then I left as fast as I could and just started running. Before I knew it, I was home. I ran upstairs to my old room as fast as I could, and just hid under my covers. I began to sob in embarrassment. I must've cried myself to sleep, because when I woke up, it was night time.
I dare not go downstairs, or anywhere for that matter. So I stayed in my room and just tried to think of anything but today.
Nearly minutes after I awoke, I heard the front door open. I looked up at the ceiling and asked why he was so cruel to me. As soon as the door shut, I heard my father's deep footsteps come up the stairs. I clamped my eyes shut and pretended the best that I could to be asleep. Of course, it would look worse that I was sleeping after I had just ruined my grandmother's wedding, but it beat facing my father that night.
My door opened, and I heard him walk towards my bed. He turned on my desk lamp and sat next to me on my bed.
"Turn around, I know you're up." He said with certainty.
His confidence showed me that I wasn't fooling anyone, so I turned over right away. I looked at him as he sat there, facing forward, with his elbows on his knees and his shoulders slumped. He finally turned to look at me, gave me the faintest, yet largest smile I'd ever seen from him, and said, "So how high were you?"
__________________________________________________
So my whole life, I've tried to do something impressive enough to win a blue-moon smile from my dad. I played football, baseball, and basketball; got 4.0's in high school; graduated the top of my class. I was just basically the ideal kid. Or at least from the surface. Because of the pressure of school, my extra-curriculars, and trying to impress my father; I did almost every drug you can think of. You'd think it would interfere with my school life, but I would never allow that. Even if I was high off my ass; I still attended every class, did every assignment, even took exams a couple of times. Because what's worse than his mutual look, was his disappointed look. Which I learned in the fourth grade when I dropped the winning touchdown pass in my junior football team's final game. After that, I vowed to my young self to never see that face ever again.
When my grandma passed away, I flew home from college to comfort my father. Because his own father was so hard on him, his mom had to be his comfort zone. She welcomed his father's disappointments with open arms and a batch of cookies. She was the most important person in the world to my father, so I knew he would take her passing very hard.
As, I had suspected, my father was in his study with a bottle of whiskey in hand.
"Hi dad." I whispered. Partially because I felt I was interrupting, and he wasn't exactly the friendliest drunk in the world. But I figured that seeing his only son after being away at college for so long, who came home simply to console him, would change that.
I was wrong. He looked up at me with an irritated glare. "Huh." He said, as though the only greeting I deserved for interrupting his wallowing was a simple grunt.
"Okay, I'll just come back later." I half whimpered as I let myself out.
In that second, it's as though all of the seeded resentment and that feeling of overall feeling unappreciated took over my body as I turned around and slammed the door open. "You know what dad?!" I yelled. He sat up, startled. "Yeah, it sucks that grandma's gone, but you know what sucks even more!? Leaving all of your classes behind, the week before finals, just to come home to be a shoulder to lean on for the one person that would never appreciate it!" As I was saying this, my father had a look of shock plastered on his face. "And you know what?! Fuck this! I don't need to be here for you when you've never been there for me!" And with that, I leaned in, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it behind me as I strode out of the house in a rage.
Before I knew it, I was at my old dealer's house. We greeted each other and then immediately got down to business. After I went to college, I forgot how good it felt to light up. I think I blacked out for a while, only to be woken up by my cell phone. It was my mother.
"Danny, where are you?" She asked with concern in her voice.
"I'm at a friend's house, ma. What'dya want?" I didn't mean to sound so snooty towards her, but I couldn't help it.
"Grandma's funeral is in an hour. I hope you have your speech down because you're speaking first. I just wanted to let you know before we left. Do you need a ride, sweetie?" My stomach dropped into my friend's basement...
"No, it's okay, mom. I'll walk there." At that moment, I realized that our church was a city away.
"Are you sure, baby? We can always swing by to get you." I didn't want my mother to see me in this state, also, I needed to sober up.
"Yeah, it's totally fine, mom. I need to get a little off my mind anyways."
"Okay, hun. See you there!"
"'Kay, thanks, mom." As I hung up the phone, I got up and ran out of the house. I nearly fell down the stairs on my friend's porch, but in that moment, I didn't care. I just needed to remember exactly where I was, and how to get to the church. It took what seemed like fifteen minutes, which probably only took one, but I finally oriented myself and started sprinting.
I got to the church four minutes early, and in that time, I realized that I went to my grandmother's funeral in an old band tee, some ripped jeans, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. I shook my head to forget about it, because there was nothing I could do at this point. I thought of, what I thought, was the perfect speech in two minutes. Then I instantly went to look for my mother.
Thank God, my father was nowhere to be found. Not only would it be awkward because I had just yelled at him for the first time ever on the day of his dear mother's funeral... But because I was so insanely under-dressed, I would almost instantly earn a "disappointed look," and that's the last thing I needed at this point. My mother pulled me to the front, where we sat.
In what seemed like seconds, I was being called up to make my speech. I was so nervous. Usually public speaking was my forte. But I was still a bit high, I was feeling self-conscious about my attire, and I knew I would be making this speech in front of my father. I got up to the podium, looked around to find my father's face. And when I finally did, I felt my stomach drop again. But this time, I felt this salty taste in my mouth....
Yes, I threw up at my grandma's funeral. In front of every one. On her casket.
I was so embarrassed. I only stayed for mere seconds to see the disgust on my family's faces. Then I left as fast as I could and just started running. Before I knew it, I was home. I ran upstairs to my old room as fast as I could, and just hid under my covers. I began to sob in embarrassment. I must've cried myself to sleep, because when I woke up, it was night time.
I dare not go downstairs, or anywhere for that matter. So I stayed in my room and just tried to think of anything but today.
Nearly minutes after I awoke, I heard the front door open. I looked up at the ceiling and asked why he was so cruel to me. As soon as the door shut, I heard my father's deep footsteps come up the stairs. I clamped my eyes shut and pretended the best that I could to be asleep. Of course, it would look worse that I was sleeping after I had just ruined my grandmother's wedding, but it beat facing my father that night.
My door opened, and I heard him walk towards my bed. He turned on my desk lamp and sat next to me on my bed.
"Turn around, I know you're up." He said with certainty.
His confidence showed me that I wasn't fooling anyone, so I turned over right away. I looked at him as he sat there, facing forward, with his elbows on his knees and his shoulders slumped. He finally turned to look at me, gave me the faintest, yet largest smile I'd ever seen from him, and said, "So how high were you?"
Life in
Black and White by Patrick Nelson
Gray slammed his fist into the
steering wheel, but the weak little bleating of his mini cooper's horn couldn't
come close to expressing the rage he felt right then. Other drivers on the ramp
merging onto the freeway with him this sunny afternoon responded in kind by
blaring their horns too. They assumed he was complaining about their
driving. They had no idea that the
source of his anger was not them but a certain mutton-chopped slacker some
eight miles away that he was racing off to confront.
He looked at the giant dent and
multitude of scratches on the hood. He glared frequently at the spiderweb-like
cracks in his windshield. His mental snapshot of the smashed headlamps dangling from their sockets
turned red in his hot brain.
He
knew it was Kirby. He didn't even have to hear the eyewitness accounts of the
dozens of student and faculty onlookers--no--gawkers that told him how this skinny kid with the crazy hair went
to town on the professor's little car with an aluminum softball bat. Some were
even still laughing when Gray came out and discovered the rape of his mini.
No matter what he thinks Gray did, he
had no right to do that to his car! Gray thought back to his confrontation with
the boy two days before. He hadn't hit him or threatened him, well, he had threatened him a little...but Gray
was not serious. How could he be? He was just a man, a professor who was
sticking his nose where it didn't belong. He was just just looking out for his
friend and former student, Eliza. He was helping her because she would never
ask for it and he felt somewhere deep inside that she really needed it, right?
That's why he stepped out of his usual mind-your-own-business and just get
through life pathway and ran headlong into her problems.
Gray never felt close to anybody his
whole life: his mother, his few girlfriends or his fellow workers at the
community college. No extracurricular activities moved him. The only thing that
created even a brief spike in the flatline that his life had become was art. He
could only connect with other people through its study or its actual creation.
Some students and one or two other artists in the area where allowed into his
social foyer, and they were not permitted to even hang up their coats or hats
there. They were kept at arm's length, politely and charmingly entertained by
Gray, his art, and his knowledge of it.
Then came Eliza. She was as different
as Arp was to El Greco. She understood art on the emotional level that Gray
did, but she also lived life as art.
As he tried to teach her the tactics and antics of the masters. She tried to
teach him how to live beyond the canvas or the clay. He had always felt life
was beneath art and had never really felt alive
unless he was somehow tethered to it. Yoked. She stretched his umbilical
and made him see a glimpse of the world and why it had inspired so many to put
it down with oil and brush. The awe and the anguish that drove men mad or to
the easel, or both. Why they created
or recreated.
From the first day in his class, Eliza
and Gray became great friends. She
asked him out for coffee that first
time. They continued from there spending many hours together in and out of the
classroom and the galleries and museums. He even grew to love her. Not in a
sexual way, that would ruin the magical friendship he had discovered. Besides,
he was up for tenure and if there was even a whiff of inappropriate behavior,
well, that just made him cringe.
She came close to snapping the line
and making Gray actually become a real walking, talking human, but in the end
he became afraid. Through a few fretful days and nights of not answering his
phone, he managed to push Eliza back out into the cold. It was the only way he
was equipped to deal with it...
Many months later, he managed to
feebly explain to her why their friendship had to "reduce." She said
she already knew why but wished he had handled it better. He did too, and now
felt even worse about what he had done to her.
He hadn't spoken with her for months
when he heard two friends of Eliza's talking about "the poor girl."
Gray got up the courage to ask them if she was ill. Since they knew about his
friendship with her, they told him her dirty little secret.
Gray had not known she was seeing
someone seriously. Why would he? He was the one who pushed her away. But to
hear of the abuse and that this new lover had started her "using" was
simply unbelievable to him. She always seemed so strong and smart. How could a
silly, stupid boyfriend bring her so low? No, he didn't believe it. Yet...he
felt like he should do something. Something to help her, but what?
That same day, he came up with the idea to
talk to the boyfriend. He looked up her current address in the registrar's
office. He drove to her house, knocked on the door and was invited in by the
boy. Eliza wasn't home, but Gray could come in and wait as she should be back
any minute. Gray came in, sat down and wondered what Eliza saw in this
purposefully disheveled little bald baboon.
Gray didn't intend for it to turn into
the shouting match and he certainly didn't know where the threats to "bash
his fucking face in" came from, but then again, Gray wasn't a master of
social interaction. He left the boyfriend there before Eliza returned, but he
had flexed his ego and his intellect and left the young man saying he wouldn't
hurt her anymore. How had he even gotten the boy to admit his abuse? It still
boggled his mind. It felt good, though. For the next two days, he had a
swagger, a social emergence. He felt good about himself. It didn't matter that
it came at the baby-man's expense. He found himself chatting with strangers and
smiling at women. He even agreed to meet some of the other teachers for a
softball game that weekend. He felt good about helping Eliza and that sort of
multiplied in his life creating a healthy dividend of human interaction.
Now, these two days later, he was
swerving in front of a Benz delivery truck because he almost missed the exit.
He gave the angry driver the finger and took the ramp at top speed. He never drove
this fast. What was wrong with him? It was as if he were floating six feet
above himself yelling to stop when someone else was behind the wheel.
He slammed on his brakes in Eliza's
front lawn and one of his sickly headlamps flew free of the mini cooper and
bounced across the grass. Whatever fire and ire that had almost died in his
furnace was reborn.
"Little fucker's gonna pay!"
He fumed.
He flew across to the porch and saw
the door was open. He heard a woman inside crying. Eliza. As he entered, he
spied an aluminum softball bat by the dining room table and snatched it
gripping it firmly. His resolve was bolstered by the sobbing of his dear
friend. He now saw himself in his mind as a knight coming to save a woman in
danger. He pictured pulling the boy off Eliza and giving him the beating
intended for her.
He was shocked and sickened by the
reality he found. Eliza was laying on the floor by the bed. She was holding
Kirby's hand tightly. Kirby was laying on the unmade bed with a blank stare and
a needle in his arm. Death of Marat came to mind.
Eliza
looked up through a tangle of tear-soaked black hair. Anger took her features
and distorted them into an ugly grimace.
"This is your fault!" She
croaked between sobs. "Why couldn't you just leave us alone? Why did you
have to become human? Did you feel like you had to fucking save me?"
Gray slumped back against the door
frame.
"You came here and just made it
worse!" she howled.
Gray couldn't bring himself to even
look at her so he just stared down at the bat he held limply in his hand. He
let go of it and it pinged to the carpet.
On his way home, Gray got a call from
one of the other teachers.
"Hey, Gray!" he said over
the static. "We still on for softball?"
Gray said, "no" and hung up.
_________________________________________________
Power of Hope by Payal Gupta
"You are of no any good. You can't do anything. Go away; you are the burden to the family and society."
"You are of no any good. You can't do anything. Go away; you are the burden to the family and society."
He was silent, there was something burning and keeping his hope intact.
There was calm on his face but his heart was burning like volcano, eyes were full of hope.
Though his mouth was shut but seems it is saying, wait.
Days and nights, weeks and month, year after year pass by.
"What are you doing man? Why don't you do anything good, this will not result to anything?"
"Look what this guy is doing, painting all the time", mocked Sally, ha -ha- ha.
“What you said sally”, asked sarcastically David, “Oh yes painting”.
The day came, Gray paintings made their ways into the annual art exhibition.
There were all praise for his thoughts behind his paintings; he gave his painting the power of silence.
Seems his paintings were saying silently, keep your faith intact, no hurdle can stop you.
“Ladies and Gentleman, It's my pleasure to introduce you Mr. Gray”, Prof. Matt said in his introductory speech.
“Ladies and Gentleman, It's my pleasure to introduce you Mr. Gray”, Prof. Matt said in his introductory speech.
“Meet the Picasso of our time Mr. Gray; all his paintings are giving
message of peace, hope brother hood without speaking a word”.
Mr. Gray would you like to say something!.
“HOPE”, that's what only Gray said in his feeble but firm voice.
Mr. Gray would you like to say something!.
“HOPE”, that's what only Gray said in his feeble but firm voice.
___________________________________________________
by Stephanie Pellegrini
Gray
Finder looks like your average Joe, he could be the man that works
behind the meat counter at the grocery
store or the post man that drops off the mail. But here’s something you
would never guess about Finder, when he was 35 years old he witnessed a
bank robbery, at least that's what he claimed. The cops had questioned
him after the incident and Gray had told
the police all the details he remembered from that Wednesday morning in
March.
Finder looked nervous in the small interview room of the
police department. He couldn't stop tapping his empty coke can on the
metal table. When the officer finally showed up Gray sat straight up in
his chair and started from the beginning. It
was about 11:30 am when he walked into the bank because he was on his
lunch break, depositing a check. He remembers being at the counter with
the teller and hearing loud scream behind him coming through the doors.
When Gray turned around he saw a 5'8" white
male with a ski mask. All he remembers from his face were these round
piercing eyes and the deep voice that demanded he get down to the
floor.
Everyone
in the bank stayed on the floor and waited for the police in hope that
they would come to their rescue. Gray mentioned that the man in
the ski mask was in the bank vault for approximately two minutes and
thirty seconds and then walking out with bills and jewels in a bag.
Finder being very helpful provided a sketch from what he remembers, of
the mans eyes before the robber walked right out
the front door.
The police took Gray Finders interview and sketch and
continued to search for more evidence of this mystery bank robber. Gray
Finder left the police station that very same day of the robbery at 4:00
pm in the afternoon. The police tried to contact
him a week later with some follow up questions but Gray Finder was
never found. The police finally had gotten the security footage from the
bank a few weeks after the robbery and viewed the tapes. While they
watched the tapes they noticed that in the time
frame of the robbery they didn't notice Gray on the floor by the teller
desk like he explained. In fact they never saw anyone who half
resembled Gray Finder that whole morning who came into the bank. The
detectives also noticed that the bag was in no way see
through so they questioned how Finder knew how much money and jewels
were stolen that day along with the exact time frame he was in the
vault.
______________________________________________________________________
The Man In Grey by Tyler Polani
He was 6 feet 5 inches, broad shoulders and big feet. He always wore a grey polo, black slacks with black dress shoes. He had always lived in town and everyone knew him, but no one knew his name. No one ever asked because it had never seemed that important, he was known and people had respect for him. When others laughed hysterically, he would only grin. There was much mystery and secrecy behind this man. He always minded his own business, never seen during the day, only at night at restaurants or bars with fellow townsmen. It was unknown as to where this man lived or what he even did for a living. One day a little girl walked up to him and asked, "What's your name mister?" He smiled big, for the first time ever seen, and replied, "The man in grey."
| ||||||
__________________________________________________
Gray Finder by Laura Gonsalves
Gray Finder finished his
contraption that he predicted would cause a ripple in the space-time
continuum, thus creating a window for time travel. Working for the U.S.
government for the war effort afforded him
the use of equipment not readily available to the public. His device
essentially consisted of two electrically charged metal plates inside of
a vacuum, thus creating an environment that has no gravity. Since
gravity and time are interrelated, if you negate
gravity, you can negate time. It was time to test the device. He
stepped into the “Faraday cage” housing the device and sat in the chair
that he placed in the center, inside of a shed in his backyard. He
thought for a moment before flipping the switch. Would
he fry himself beyond recognition? This was the moment he had been
preparing for throughout all the years of college and research, studying
math and physics, pouring over all of Einstein’s work. If he was
correct, he would find a way to time travel.
He flipped the switch on
the electrical cable that powered the generators. Everything went black
for Gray. When he came to, he found himself flat on his back laying on
grass. Where was he? He stood up and looked
around and the shed was gone that housed his device. He was in
someone’s back yard but seeming not his own. He glanced into the back
patio sliding door and looked into the house and saw pictures on the
wall, none of which looked familiar. His heart was now
pounding with fear and excitement. He saw unfamiliar devices in the
house with a large black screen on the wall. He saw a divice on the
kitchen table that looked like a telephone, but with no cable. He walked
around to the gate and walked out the driveway
down the street. Looking at the address, the address was the same has
his own address, 3671 but the house looked nothing like his. He saw the
street sign, “Miramar Street and Skyline Boulevard”. This was his house
but somehow changed. He wanted to knock on
the door but it appeared that no one was home. There was a sign in
front of the house that said, “For Sale, Bank Foreclosure”. Gray was now
scared out of his wits.
He had to somehow find
the date. He walked to Skyline Boulevard to see if he could find any
familiar surroundings. He saw a store with people going in and out of
called “7-11”. He walked in and looked at a newspaper.
The date said July 30, 2012. He asked the store clerk what day it was
and he replied, “It’s Sunday”. No he said, “What is todays date?” The store clerk looking somewhat annoyed at this point said, “It’s the 30th”.
That seemed
to solidify what Gray suspected. He was catapulted into the future. His
device worked. “My God”, he thought. That is my house, and the cars
look so different. What to do now? Should he tell anyone? Who could he
tell? No-one knew about his time travel experiment.
Before he powered up his device it was April 5, 1944. His hands were
now trembling with fear. He thought for a moment. I have to buy this
newspaper to see what’s happening. He looked at the newspaper and saw
the price, $1.50. That was almost all the money
he had in his pocket. He paid for the newspaper in quarters. “Wow these
are silver”, said the store clerk. He replied, “Yes they are”. The
store clerk replied, “Are you sure you want to pay for that newspaper
with these coins? They may be worth something...”
Each bit of conversation only hammered home that fact that he was way
far away from anything familiar with no apparent way to get back. The
neighborhood he lived in was now changed permanently. Gray took the
newspaper and walked outside and vomited. The store
clerk leaned over the counter and asked, “Are you OK?” Gray just walked
away very quickly. There were now stores where there was once and empty
field at the end of Skyline Boulevard. Gray found a coffee shop with
tables and chairs in front called “Starbucks”.
He sat down and read the newspaper. The headline read, “Occupy Oakland
Protesters Storm City Hall”, “Drone Strikes Resume on Pakistan”. Gray
though, is the U.S. now at war with Pakistan? That made no sense at all.
What about the war with Germany and Japan?
Was that war over? It didn’t appear as if there were Germans and
Japanese soldiers in charge anywhere. All this was a bit much for Gray
to accept all at once. “And what about my wife?” Gray though “Was she
still alive?” And why did I land in the year 2012?
Why not 2500? Why not 3000 or why not 1493 or some other date in the
past? It’s not like there was a dial to select the year to travel to.
This was all too new a concept to conceive of. There was only one thing
left to do. Search though public records. There
must be a way to find out what happened to the device, and what of his
wife? Was he considered missing or dead? Gray made his way to the public
library and asked the librarian information on how to find death
records. He did not find his wife deceased, but
he did find on microfiche his own recorded disappearance, April 5,
1944. But now what would he do? Try to contact her? There was only one
thing to do. Try to recreate his device.
___________________________________________________
Words
of Wisdom by Tara Ingraham
"Dad, I can’t
afford the funeral.” Jeff finally blurted after a pregnant silence that had
been building since early morning.
Ralph set his
condescending expression upon his son for the first time since he’d been there
and muttered, “Now why in blue blazes are you worrying about that?”
Jeff stared blankly at
his father “Why wouldn’t I be concerned? Don’t you want to be buried next to
mom in Olive Oaks Cemetery? You know that even if you were cremated they
wouldn’t let me place you in her coffin”.
“Why not, just haul out
the old shovel and pick-ax and make sure to tip-off the fat-ass grave keeper
with a stogie, a pack of Bud-Lights and a half decent porn magazine! It
shouldn’t take that long for you to pry her open and throw me in. Old Rosie didn’t
have any complaints about that particular department when she was up and
kicking so I don’t think she’ll have them now.”
“Ralph, I can’t believe
you’re seriously contemplating breaking into Rosie’s tomb!”
“Hey! Watch that mouth
of yours before I tan your hide so bad you won’t be able to recognize it for a
week as my going away present to you! It’s father or Sir to you and mom to your
mother; you hear!”
“Why are you being so
pig-headed today? Did the cancer reach your brain and bring out a second personality
or have I done something to piss you off or what; because you weren’t like this
before! If it’s because of the money I’ll take double or triple shifts at this
point if I have to so just stop acting like a perverted jack-ass!”
“Good! You’re no longer
moping around like Eeyore from ‘Winnie the Pooh’ when he’s lost his tail.
Besides; I have all the money you could possibly need to set up the funeral so
you don’t need to worry about it.”
“What?”
“I said I already have
the money for my funeral. And I’ve already made the arrangements so you don’t
need to lose any sleep over it, but the thought that you’re willing to work
your ass off is a nice compliment I guess. Honestly I just like pushing your
buttons because you’ve been brooding for so long that I got irritated.”
“Why didn’t you tell me
this before?”
“You didn’t ask. That
and I figured you thought I had enough brains to take care of my own issues. I
mean honestly; it’s not like I didn’t think the day would come when I kicked
the bucket. I just got the short end of the straw when it came to who would go
first.”
“What do you mean? Mom
died first.”
“She sure did! And so I
had to deal with the pain of life without her. How funny that I always said
that I would be the first to go. Oh well, at least I have the dog to keep me
company and her medical bills are about as bad as mine.”
“Wait! Wait! Back up
for a second. Where did you come up with the money? Didn’t it all go towards
the hospital bills?”
”What did you think we
did with all your allowance money throughout the years?”
“I had an allowance?”
“Sure. Since you were
four years old we were saving ten dollars a week for you to go to college, but
by the time you graduated we had more than enough to see you through and then
some; unless you were a complete idiot and wrecked a Mercedes bens or something.”
”Why didn’t you tell me
about this when I was growing up?”
“So you wouldn’t do
anything stupid with it for one thing, to have a bit of a cushion if you did
and because it wasn’t necessary or the only thing it was being saved for after
a time. It was our money so we used it when we needed it to deal with our own
issues once you were taken care of, and now it’s come in handy for the issue of
paying for my medical expenses and fairly soon, unless God is being a prick with
me or all the physicians in this building are complete morons, my funeral so
you don’t have to lose any sleep over double or triple shifts as you put it.”
“You really thought I
was that untrustworthy when I was young?”
“Jeff, I have trusted
you to make dinners for me after having huge fights were I know your imagining
killing me in some slow and probably painful manner. I have trusted you with
the keys to my house for the last 42 years; even after that wild party you had
that cost us over five thousand dollars in damages. I still let you pick what
we do for holidays sometimes; even after the skydiving incident when you puked
in mid-air with me right behind you. Jeff, I have trusted you behind the wheel
of a car with me in it after seeing how you drove with your friends in college
through the number of speeding tickets and that u-tube video where you nearly
had a collision due to driving on the wrong side of the road. If that isn’t a
true demonstration of trust then there is no such thing.”
They remained silent
once again considering one another. “Fine” Jeff finally stated with a smirk,
“Then, tell me this: If there was anything else you wanted before God decides
to send a demon to come stick a pitchfork in your ass and ditch you in the most
secluded part of hell so nobody needs to listen to you anymore, what would it
be?”
Ralph closed his eyes and
thought for a moment, then with a look of exaltation he smirked back at his son
and whispered, “a stogie, a pack of Bud-Lights and a half decent porn magazine”.
Matt O'Malley the Winner of the Ginger Bread Fiction Contest
Primordial Dreams—Matt O’Malley
“This is it?”
Ginger’s roommate frowned as he looked at the petite Edwardian
containing window displays of colorful teapots, trays, cups and saucers.
“Yup. We’re here.” Ginger replied cheerfully from the passenger side of the car.
“Looks like crap.” He said giving a disgusting look. “Well, let’s get this over with.”
Ginger’s
roommate climbed out of the car and headed for the door of the teahouse
as Ginger watched from the inside of his car. Her roommate seemed
to revel in his size; walking with his shoulders back, arms cocked
slightly out as if he was holding the handlebars of an invisible
motorcycle.
When he reached the door of the teahouse he called out, “You coming?”
Ginger
tried exiting the car but a Catahua tree blocked her egress and she had
to squeeze herself out which not only erased her smile but also any
doubts
she had of her current plans. Inside, and the hostess and Ginger
followed her roommate as he maneuvered his barrel shaped body around the
room until he found the table that suited him. Ginger placed an order
as her roommate pulled an extra chair over from
a nearby table. Her roommate then removed the hat that covered his
apish dome and placed it along with his coat upon the chair he had
dragged to the table.
Ginger
had convinced her roommate to join her on this little journey to the
far-flung town of Bolinas through subtle manipulation. She knew what he
expected
if he acquiesced to treating her like a woman once in a blue moon, the
inevitable demand of tit for tat, something she was sure she’d avoid
this afternoon.
Ginger
slouched forward in her chair, her arms hanging to her sides below her
knees as she prepared for what she often considered to be worst then
sex with her roommate, his talking. Talking, talking and more talking.
He began with a story he had told her yesterday. It was the same story
he had told her a week before and several more times before that. And he
did this all the time, the rehashing of a
story ad-nauseam. It brought Ginger to the realization early on in
their relationship that either he was stupid or he just liked hearing
his head rattle. His endless monologues gave her heartburn and a nervous
twitch that caused her to pound her chest to relieve
the heartburn and to scratch at the itchy spot that would develop in
her armpits.
And
the way he told stories was like the way he had sex; selfishly,
relentless, and indulgent, whereas she was not allowed to get a single
word in edgewise.
He would not allow her the satisfaction; that was until she learned a
trick, a way to get him to momentarily pull back from his onslaught of
repetitive storytelling.
The
trick Ginger learned early on was to get him to eat, which he performed
extremely well in a primordial sort of way; mouth open, smacking and
slurping
all the while. As he ate with his head inches
from his plate, he would sometimes gasp for air just to say a few words
but then it was back to his feasting upon whatever was in front of him.
Once his plate was cleared of food of any substance,
he would take a finger to wipe away any excess residue from his trough
and clean his finger pornographically.
A
multi-tiered pyramid shaped tray carrying scones, small sandwiches,
cakes, berries and petit fours was brought to their table and Ginger’s
roommate
cried “That’s it?” His face resembled a young boy who just saw his dog
run over by a truck. Ginger nodded and he quickly grabbed at the tray,
snatching handfuls of items and piling them high on his tiny plate.
Ginger
had taken her roommate to this teahouse for its location and to throw
him slightly off-guard as she hoped the atmosphere of the area might
soothe
the savage beast enough that he could be caught unawares. It was just a
matter of time before she could make her move and until then, she would
just continue sitting here, feeling like a captive animal stuck
watching a freak show. Ginger furrowed her brow
as she pinched, picked and tasted a doorstop shaped scone.
Her roommate emptied the tray, ordered a replacement, and a pot
of coffee before announcing “I gotta take a shit.” He stood and added,
“And after this, maybe outside, you and I can drive somewhere and you
know what they say, Ginger settles the stomach.”
He laughed at his old joke Ginger heard so many times before.
As
soon as he left the room, Ginger saw herself reaching into his coat
pocket and taking his wallet and car keys. She then took his hat, ran
from the
teahouse to jump and swing from a branch of the Catahua tree before
letting out a hoot and landing in the street near the driver side of his
car. Ginger unlocked the car and then with the hand that still held her
roommate’s hat, she curled her arm and quickly
extended it as if she was going to throw a Frisbee.
But
Ginger didn’t release the hat. Instead she flicked the hat into the air
to catch it upon her head. She then pushed it back with her index
finger and
brought her finger down to her mouth to blow as if cooling a smoking
gun.
Bolinas,
far from the city and with no regular bus, boat or taxi transportation
back, it would be hours, Ginger thought, if not days, before he was able
to make it to their apartment and by then she would be gone and have
him out of her life forever. She would just keep his cherished hat as a
memento to remember what she did not want in a man.
Ginger’s roommate returned from the restroom, poured himself a cup of coffee and asked “Bout ready to go?”
Ginger, hatless and glassy eyed, nodded.
All of the stories really seemed to hang together in this round of stories so I would like to publish them all in the upcoming catalog for the show at Ohlone because they all describe a facet of the portrait and they all work equally well. I think all the stories were winners so please send me some info where I can send all of you a watercolor or drawing.. Unfortunately I only have one drawing of Ginger so I think the story I liked the best was Matt O’Malley’s.
Ginger it seems, despite her smile in her portrait is actually a young woman of many sorrows ranging from jilted ex-lover to a lonely woman looking for a lover, even if just for one moment. The common thread through all the stories seems to be Ginger’s relationships to other people, especially men, and how they affect her inner thoughts and outward behavior.
I had a moment of sadness when I got to the end of Matt O’Malley’s story. The way he describes Ginger’s thoughts and her roommate’s behaviors was extremely clever and even slightly misleading. Wow! I don’t even want to give it away the ending but it contains pathos.
First, there’s Ginger’s relationship to herself. God can’t help Ginger to forgive her sins so in Mary C. Charest’s story Ginger literally needs to reflect on her own sins and either forgive herself or at the very least let herself off the hook.
“Ginger Bread” by Elizabeth Hodson and “Nickname” by Karlena Lee the motif of Ginger’s nickname, revolve around sex and loneliness. In one story Ginger’s nickname is a reward and in the other a reminder of something she’s lost. In one story she has sex and in the other she is witness to it. In one case there’s an erotically charged encounter which dispels her loneliness and in the other Ginger is accidentally witness to her lover’s erotic dalliance and it ends up creating loneliness in for her. In each case we are a witness to Ginger’s thoughts and emotions.
Mindy Nguyen also describes Ginger’s thoughts but this time we are not empathically linked to her. Instead we see them more through her ex boyfriend’s eyes. Isaac and Ginger have their own stories. It’s pretty clear that Ginger is looking to connect, but, I’ll leave you to decide why Isaac doesn’t want to connect with her. It’s a bit of an enigma to me.
Also a bit of a mystery is Ashley Mitcheom’s version of Ginger. The opening paragraph reminded me a bit of Emily Dickenson’s “Certain Slant of Light.” What put Ginger in that state of mind that seems to make a moment feel like days or hours?
The notable exception where Ginger’s thoughts and motivations are not explored is in Stephen Rogers’ story. Is Ginger really the Samaritan she appears to be or is she some sort of procuress for a more sinister purpose? Since we don’t know what she’s thinking we don’t know who she is and what she’s doing.
Thanks for writing!
Kenney
Read them all here:
http://kenney-mencher.blogspot.com/2012/01/write-story-about-ginger-bread-and-win.html
More competitions coming soon!
http://www.kenney-mencher.com/
Alyson B. Stanfield and Artbizblog
I'm subscribed to a newsletter by Alyson B. Stanfield. She runs a blog and a service called Artbizblog this came to me this morning and I thought it had some good nuggets that I would share with you guys.
15 Steps to Take After Completing Your Artwork
On the heels
of last week’s post about the importance of systems, here’s a system
framework inspired by a question from Kerry Thompson.
What do you do after you’ve finished a work?
What do you do after you’ve finished a work?
Finish the Details
The work shouldn’t be considered complete until you do the following with the physical piece.
The work shouldn’t be considered complete until you do the following with the physical piece.
-
Sign it! Sign it wherever you can, and however you do it best..
-
Add the date on the front, back, or underneath – where and when it’s appropriate for your medium.
-
Many artists don’t like to date their work on the front because it doesn’t look as fresh. That’s fine, but date it somewhere. Dating is a way that helps you claim credit for copyright and will be used by the curator that mounts a retrospective of your work in 30 years.
-
Again, if appropriate for your medium, make an identification card for the back that includes the complete credit line: Name, title, media, dimensions, and price. This is enormously helpful for venues.
Document It
-
Record details in your inventory database. Don’t let that artwork out of your site until you have done this.
-
Have artwork photographed, or do it yourself if you have the proper equipment.
-
Name image files according to your standard. Images are easier to find if they are all named in the same manner. I suggest starting the file name with your name:
lastname-abbreviatedtitle-imagesize.jpg -
Add the image to your inventory record for that piece.
-
Resize images to three or four standard sizes that you use most often. Create a digital file folder for each artwork and differentiate your digital images using your naming convention. This takes some time to do now, but it will save you time and frustrations in the future. Using the example above, your image files might look like this:
hart-redsky-600.jpg
hart-redsky-300.jpg
hart-redsky-72-300px.jpg
hart-redsky-72-200px.jpg -
File a copyright claim at http://copyright.gov if this is part of your practice.
Tell People About It
-
Blog about the work. Be sure the complete credit line is visible with the image, and that viewers will know it's for sale.
-
Edit the text from your blog into a descriptive sentence that you can use on your website or social media profiles.
-
Add the descriptive sentence to your inventory database. When you do this, the sentence will always be with the work, and you can copy and paste it with abandon.
-
Upload the image to your website. Double check to make sure that your name and credit line is visible whenever the image is enlarged.
-
Upload the image to any online sales venues you use. (Etsy, RedBubble, etc.)
-
Share your newly completed work on social media sites.
What did I forget? Leave a comment on the Art Biz Blog.
http://artbizblog.com/after-complete
http://artbizblog.com/after-complete
Tuesday
Some great videos on how to study.
Some great videos on how to study. I think there were some valuable nuggets in these videos but I think only the students who already know how to study will watch them all:
http://www.samford.edu/how-to-study/
Video 1: Beliefs That Make You Fail...Or Succeed
Video 2: What Students Should Understand About How People Learn
Video 4: Putting the Principles for Optimizing Learning into Practice
Video 5: I Blew the Exam, Now What?
http://www.samford.edu/how-to-study/
Video 1: Beliefs That Make You Fail...Or Succeed
Video 2: What Students Should Understand About How People Learn
Video 4: Putting the Principles for Optimizing Learning into Practice
Video 5: I Blew the Exam, Now What?
Introduction to Linear Perspective
Another video for my students at Ohlone College. A ten minute review of how one and two point perspective work.
Sunday
Rembrandt et moi
 |
 | |
| Harmony Dissing en rouge, huile sur toile 24 "x24" |
 |
| Henri Matisse, l'Harmonie en rouge (le dessert) |
C'est un de mes étudiants préférés, qui était à moitié italien et moitié afro-américain et il a vécu dans deux mondes. L'héritage qu'il a étudié avec moi était un eurocentrique blanc et je voulais montrer comment il avait ce contexte d'artistes européens comme Matisse dans le fond.
Je pensais aussi que dans son monde il ya eu une mésentente entre le passé classique que je lui apprendre avec le monde actuel.
Acheter Harmony Dissing en rouge sur Etsy
________________________________________________
Posts similaires sur la technique et l'usage et l'abus de l'histoire de l'art:
- Rembrandt, Matisse et moi
- Henri Matisse et moi
- Marcel Duchamp, Rrose Sélavy, Mona Lisa, et Me
- Giacomo Balla et moi
- John Singer Sargent, le Caravage et moi
- Velasquez et Cherise
- NC Wyeth, Chuck et moi
- Moi et Hopper: une certaine inclinaison de la Lumière
- Mon utilisation et l'abus des photos de référence
- Thèmes de l'art; art séquentiel
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)